Moonchild

Great General Staff!" "Yes, you should certainly do that!" answered Lord Antony, laughing. [310] "Then let's stroll up the Boulevard. Dawn's breaking. We'll get a cafe- brioche at the Rotonde, and then I'll tyrannize my tailor, and get off." They went out into the cold morning air. Three hundred yards away, outside the Sante prison, a small crowd had collected. The centre of attraction seemed to be a framework, two narrow uprights crowned with a cross-bar where a triangular piece of metal glittered in the pale twilight. "Peace hath her victories no less renowned than war!" drawled Cyril, cynically. "Confess that I have entertained you royally! Here is a choice savoury to wind up our feast." Lord Antony could not conceal his horror and repulsion. For he knew well enough what sight chance had prepared for them. But the fascination drew him far more surely than if his temperament had resembled that of his friend. They approached the crowd. A ring was kept about the framework by a cordon of police. Just then the gates of the prison opened, and a little procession came out. All eyes were drawn instantly to its central figure, an old, old man whose jaw was dropped, and from whose throat issued a hoarse howling, utterly monotonous and inhuman. His eyes were starting from his head, and their expression was one not to be described. His arms were bound tightly to his sides. Two men were half supporting him, half pushing him. Save for his horrible cry, there was no sound. There was no movement in the crowd — no whisper. Like automata the officials did their duty. In a trice the prisoner was thrown forward on to a board, thrust up toward the framework. His caterwaul suddenly ceased. A moment later a sharp order rang out in the voice of one of the prison officials. The knife fell. From the crowd burst a most dreadful sound — an "Ah!" so [311] low, so fierce, that it had no human quality. Lord Antony Bowling could never be sure whether it was after that or before it that he heard the head tumble into the basket. "Who was it?" asked Cyril of a bystander. "Un anglais," answered the man. "Le docteur Balloch." Cyril started back. He had not recognized his old enemy. But even at that moment he was accosted by one whom he would never fail to know, even dressed as he was in the uniform of French colonel — Douglas. On his arm was a child whose eyes were blear already with